


Questioning Fate

by cockatoo



Series: Questioning the Unquestionable [2]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Facials, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Toys, Smut, Teen Angst, accidental facials, overprotective dad, papa!Janson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockatoo/pseuds/cockatoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything’s perfect in paradise, besides the fact Newt’s dad hates him and the blonde’s grown tired of their feud.  Conflicts arise and the two are scared fate is destined to tear them apart.</p><p>Sequel to Questioning the Unquestionable, but can be read as a standalone story. Short Multi-chaptered fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the first story and don't want to: sex happened. Now your all caught up, let's get this show on the road!

They’re kissing, again. The drawings and artwork on Newt’s walls are watching them, encouraging the two on with silent cheers as Minho moves in even closer.

 It seems to be all they do now is kiss, or fuck or just talk about the two. There was a time, Minho was sure, where he and Newt had used to talk about life outside of another or go outdoors like normal functioning teenagers. Part of him really doesn’t care, but the other part of him thinks maybe an element of their relationship is lost.

But then Newt grinds against his clothed erection, then he doesn’t care.

Small hands grab his shirt and throw it to the floor, Newt eager as ever to get the logistics out the way. They’re much better now, Minho realises, more in sync and wiser when it comes to their now familiar routine. First times were awkward, but now Minho’s great at making Newt cum, and finally the universe has restored itself because Minho’s great at everything again.

However his strength is nothing in comparison to Newt’s when he’s horny or focused, and right now he’s both of those things. He unzips Minho’s pants until his boxers are exposed, and then he mercilessly pulls them aside until the older boy lies bare to the cold room and both of their eyes. Newt’s hands are warm on his cock, familiar and almost homely as Minho rolls his eyes back and moans.

And Newt smiles because he’s in control, and his lover is literal putty in his hands.

He speeds up his strokes, shifting between playing with the head and coating his length in pre-cum. Minho’s sure he’s lost his mind, but Newt isn’t at all satisfied that he still has the will to notice that fact.

Newt begins to kiss down his chest, nipping and wetting his skin as he sinks further and further down.

Minho jumps up with the realisation that Newt’s moist breath is on his cock. Heaven can wait, because right now the mortal universe as he knows it couldn’t possibly get better than this.

And just as the blonde moves his head down, a hesitant lick on the head and a tense sigh of inexperience, a loud imposing sound assaults their close space.

 _“Isaac, I’m home!”_ His father calls from downstairs, Newt’s stomach turning as he pulls away, Minho becoming as a appealing as a parasite as he jumps to his feet.

“Fuck,” Minho mutters, at both Newt’s annoying father and the universe’s will to constantly fuck him over.

But Newt isn’t listening, he’s at his mirror checking his hair and straightening his clothes to smooth out any sign that Minho ever existed. He turns to him with fearful eyes, “Get in the closet!”

He stares back at the blonde in disbelief, “What the-“

“Shut up” He says, somehow both a scream and a whisper as he puts his softening dick inside his underwear and ushering him to his closet. Minho’s too in shock to protest.

All he sees is a blushing Newt throwing his shirt at him and then darkness as he closes the door.

“H-Hey Dad,” He hears Newt greet as he runs down the stairs.

Their murmurings get more distant as they leave him, alone and rejected as he’s pushed back into he closet, both physically and metaphorically, despite the fact Newt’s dad _knew_ he was gay. He had remembered the blonde fretting and fidgeting at school the day before he told him, repeating his fears that his dad would hate him and leave him. Minho had listened as he spoke, nodding his head and pretending he had the solution despite knowing that his own father hated him and left him so he really wasn’t qualified to direct the boy.

He had planned for Newt’s dad to overreact, for Newt to cry and fall apart. He’d also planned to comfort Newt and then tell him he could live with him and for Newt to smile and tell him he couldn’t wait. But sure enough he had been wrong, Newt had cried when he told his dad and Janson had told him he loved him no matter what.

Because his dad loved him, the thought leaving a bitter aftertaste of jealousy in Minho’s mouth. Newt’s dad loved him and told him he would _no matter what_. He hated Minho because he didn’t like him, just like his own dad and any other man Minho had ever met. Minho only had his mum, who loved him for who he was and loved Newt and told them how much she wanted the two to live happily ever after.

Newt _is_ his family, his everything, but Newt’s dad would keep them apart and maybe, just maybe, Newt would give up and tell Minho he couldn’t love him anymore.

The thought made his stomach crawl, pushing his heart into his mouth to choke him.

There’s a small sliver of light coming from under the closet door, casting itself across Minho’s feet and the interior. Minho sees a small shoebox; half open and spilling with photographs. Deciding he had nothing better to do except wait, he sat down on the floor and started searching through the box.

All the top pictures were of Newt and him, smiling as children and kissing as teenagers, all the corners bent in wear and moulded into the shape of Newt’s hands.  Their lives in snippets, the day they met in school where Minho had laughed at his accent and made him cry, before offering him a pack of sweets in apology. Sleepovers and school dances with Newt, Thomas and Minho all hugging and joking around. Recent pictures of the two of them, the morning after they’d had sex, the first time Newt cooked him breakfast, the first time he had taken Newt to dinner without Thomas around.

He couldn’t believe how long it had been, how fate had pushed them together and protected them form ever being torn apart. He didn’t remember a time where he didn’t know the blonde, Newt had engraved himself on anything and everything he had ever done, made him the man he respected when he looked in the mirror.

Minho searched further into the box, pictures of Newt’s mother healthy and alive, pictures of her bed bound looking and thin with a fading smile on her lips, and then pictures of people dressed in black where no was smiling. These pictures looked brand new, like they’d been cared for but the droplets of dried tears showed Newt held them with fragile hands as he remembered what once was.

Sometimes he forgot the blonde was sad, forgot that he still remembered the time when both their lives had fallen apart. Newt still cries for his mother, still misses her and prays she’s happy in the heaven that Minho doesn’t believe exists.

And sometimes he forgets he’s still angry, forgets that he still hated himself and his father and was reminded of the fact every time he looked in the mirror. He forgot he still cries sometimes when his mum or Newt aren’t looking , in the small vulnerable times before he falls asleep, waking up to escape the nightmare as he runs and runs and runs till his eyes are dry.

Feeling too emotional and intrusive, he carefully puts the pictures of Newt’s mother away and then covers them up with the happier memories of them and everything that’s present. Just so next time when Newt wants to remember, he’ll see Minho’s face and maybe, just maybe, feel a little better.

As he puts the shoe-box down he notices another, pushed further back into the darkest depths of the closet underneath scrapped drawings that were angrily crossed out. Feeling curious Minho picks it up, a small shuffling within the box only peaks his curiosity further.

Upon opening the box all he sees his a sheet of material, feeling disappointed he debates whether to close the box and pretend  he never looked, but something in his mind tells him to keep searching. He lifts the sheet only to see an empty bottle of lube and a small instruction manual. Weighing the box under his hand he sneezes, sending the box to the floor with an audible thump.

The murmuring downstairs gets louder in response, but Minho can’t hear it; all he sees is the content of the box.

At first he doesn’t know what it is, the object looking like a children’s toy or some kind of science apparatus, that was until he accidentally turned it on and it began to vibrate in his hand. Wondering what the hell it was he looked at the manual that had the same logo. It read, _‘_ _perfect for internal and external stimulation that will take your breath away.’_

 _‘Holy shit,’_ He realises, _‘It’s a vibrator!’_

Minho can’t work out whether to be aroused or jealous. He wonders how long Newt’s had it, how often he uses it or what he thinks about when he does. The picture is clear in his mind, Newt home alone and too nervous to call him over, legs spread wide as he turns the device on, moaning at its vibrations as he calls Minho’s-

 _“Dad, I swear, it was nothing, probably just the wind,”_ Newt’s voice cries, pulling Minho out of his fantasy world and into the reality where he is _entirely_ fucked.

 _“Then it shouldn’t be a problem if I check your room,”_ His father replies, tone deep and fearfully close. Minho stands up for a reason that escapes him, before staying very, very still. Ignoring the fact he’s still holding the toy in his hand.

Newt’s bedroom door bangs as Janson opens it, using his fatherly instincts to scan the room for danger or boys, buy mostly for Minho.

He can hear Newt’s feet shuffle into his room, and from the small gap in the closet door, he can see Newt crossing his arms at the room’s perceived emptiness.

“See, I told you nothing was here,” The blonde scolds, resisting the urge to look to his wardrobe.

His father’s mouth opens in apology but his thought is cut off by a small shuffle and curse form the closet.

Newt’s eyes widen as his father looks at him with raised eyebrows, not fast enough to react before Janson opens the door to reveal a very shirtless and very Minho looking boy.

And he just watches Newt’s dad watch him, the look of confusion and frustration evident on both their faces. But Minho just stands there, holding a dildo and Janson’s stare as he wonders, ‘ _Why the hell does the universe hate me so much?’_

“Get out my house,” Janson demands when he recovers from the shock, Newt grabbing his arm in fear things will turn violent.

“No Dad, stop!” He cries, but his father simply grabs his arm and forces him to look in his eyes.

“I don’t want this _boy_ in my house, _especially_ while I’m at work.” Newt does the cute wide eye look he did ever since he was a kid, persuading his dad silently to do as he says.

“He’s my boyfriend dad,” Newt exclaims, stepping between the two with a defensive stance.

Janson narrows his gaze, “He’s a ruffian and- _And what on earth is he holding?!”_

All three of their eyes fall on the vibrator in Minho’s hands, Newt’s face flushing red as he snatches it out of his boyfriends hand and throws it back into the wardrobe.

 _“Nothing!”_ He screams, pushing Minho out the way in a mix of anger and humiliation. “And you don’t even know him dad.”

Minho looks at Janson, Janson looks at Minho. Both their fists clench as they take in the others unwanted presence.

“Fine!” His father eventually snaps, “Then he’ll come over tomorrow for dinner and I’ll get to know him.” He turns around to leave, but not before shouting “And he _better_ not be late,” over his shoulder.

Minho gulps but for some reason, probably due to the bloodless carpet and fading tension, Newt counts this as a win.

 

* * *

 

 

He runs home in the rain, the fading warmth of Newt’s kiss goodbye and anger at the boy’s father encouraging him on.  He had said some things he didn’t mean before he left, cursed and raged while Newt had apologised profusely. Newt had looked smaller and sadder than he had in a while, Minho’s guilt stretching as far as an apologetic stare before he ran off into the night.

He arrives home in record time, kicking off his shoes and shaking the rain droplets out his hair as he closes the door behind him.

Minho’s house is far less extravagant than Newt’s, a humble little townhouse with an overgrown garden and chipped paint. Newt’s father made a lot of money; he was a well-respected man and doctor in the community so he made sure to buy a big pretty house for Newt to live in why he jumped around from event to shift. Newt hated his house, said it was far too big for him on his own, so in rebellion to that act they went in Newt’s room and fucked like rabbits, Minho knowing and loving that his father would hate him for it.

His house was simple, only had rooms they used and necessities they’d die without. His mother was a midwife, a lot of hours and little to no pay but she made the time for her family which consisted of Minho and the homeless cat that demanded food around three days a week. She worked hard to keep their family unit above the water, listening to her son talk about his problems despite the fact she would yawn into her nods.

Ever since his dad left they had been sinking, grasping at driftwood in attempt to save themselves as bills and fate kept them from staying afloat. But Minho didn’t care, he’d rather be drowning than laughing at the ones who did from the shore.

“Min-bin!” His mother calls from the kitchen, “Why are you all wet?”

 _“Min-bin?_ That’s a new one, please don’t ever say it again,” He cries, walking through he hallway to see her cackling above the stove.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to remember it for when Newt next comes round,” She laughs as she tastes the pasta sauce, shaking her head in comment. “Speaking of which, how is the little cutie, you’re always somewhere else when I’m around.”

Minho passes her the salt and pepper, wrapping the spare apron around himself, “He’s fine mum, and we don’t exactly desert you, we just hang out at his place and-“

“-I _don’t_ want to know what you do,” She cuts him off with a smile, adding too much salt and too little pepper to the sauce.

“Oh ha ha ha,” Minho barks dryly, “And you wonder why we don’t want to spend family time with you.”

He and his mum laugh together, easy and simple like everything they do.

Eventually Minho pushes his mother out the way and finishes off dinner, trying to fix her mistakes and turn into something edible. His mum just watches with a bored fascination as she has a sip of her wine.

“Oi, Little Miss Helpful,” he calls, “Why don’t you set the table and do something useful.”

“Yes mum,” She jokes.

Minho serves their dinner, the pasta too overcooked and the sauce far too tart, but they both pretend it’s the best thing they’ve ever eaten.

“How are things with you?” He asks, wincing at the texture of the food in his mouth.

“Same old, same old,” She dismisses with a wave of her hand, “And how’s life in paradise?”

Minho snorts into his water, “Great, Newt and I are in love and happy, schools okay and work is too.”

_“But?”_

“Why does there always have to be a ‘but’?” He asks.

She spares him an unconvinced look.

 _“But,”_ he continues, “Newt’s dad hates me and will do everything he can to change Newt’s mind about me.”

His mother sighs, “Then he won’t succeed. The heart isn’t as fickle as you think, you and that boy have been together through everything and I know he loves you with all his heart.”

He shuffles in his seat, picking at his dinner to find a forkful that’s edible, only to come up empty. “But it makes Newt sad, he wants us to get along but I just… he’s such a _dick_.”

“Don’t be rude,” She scolds, “He just care about his son. It’s hard for a parent, especially a single one, to see their baby grow up. I mean look at you, it seems like only a few weeks ago you were in diapers and now you’re in a serious relationship, thinking about university and helping support me.”

She starts to tear up and Minho rolls his eyes, “Don’t be so melodramatic. I mean he’s never even there for Newt, so what right does he have to tell him what he wants.”

She finishes her dinner at begins to pick of his plate, “He has the right as Newt’s father.”

Minho groans, “But why does he hate me so much? I mean at first I thought it was because I’m gay, but he’s fine with Newt’s sexuality. I mean, is it a race thing?”

His mother gives him a pointed expression. “He doesn’t hate you because your Asian, Minho, I’m pretty sure it’s your big mouth and lack of filter.”

“But I was _trying_ to be nice.”

“Really?” She laughs, “Think back to what you said to him sweetheart, and then tell me he overreacted.”

He does, recalling the awkward encounter before turning back to his mother with confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

She pauses, “Well that’s slightly hard to believe. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Whatever,” He moans, “He’s invited me to dinner tomorrow, to _‘get to know me’_.”

“See, he’s trying, so now it’s your turn,” She tells him, hand on his hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses.

“Maybe I should come along,” she suggests, and Minho looks at her with cautious eyes.

“No, you definitely shouldn’t.”

“Wait,” she cries, “Hear me out. I could come over and talk you up to his dad and then you and Newt can go upstairs and-“

He sticks his fingers in his ears. _“What the hell?_ No, I don’t want you coming because you’ll just try and flirt with Newt’s dad or start talking about me and Newt having sex!”

His mum stacks the plates with a mischievous grin, “He is very handsome though, we could all double date!”

“Ew mum, stop it!” He protests with his arms thrown up in the air.

She just laughs in reply.

Stalking off to his room in frustration, he throws himself on his bed and sighs. He wished everything would just work out the way it should, Newt to fall into his arms and them to ride into the sunset together like he always wished.

But nothing was ever that easy.

Newt’s forgotten boxers were still in the corner of the room, not having the heart to hide them or hand them back because of the memory that always made him smile. Newt had come over to watch Netflix and cuddle, before changing his mind and decided they needed to have sex _‘right here, right now.’_

Minho had complied, and in the moments of post-orgasmic heaven, his mum had returned from work and they had dressed in a frenzy, one very much like today. In his panic Newt had lost his boxers, simply shoving on his jeans and hissing at the harsh fabric on his sensitive skin. Knowing that Newt had walked home commando turned him on like he wouldn’t believe, knowing the blonde would have shuffled home and eaten dinner with his dad with Minho still fresh on his skin.

Now knowing that Newt was alone in his room, probably crying or at least cursing his name made his stomach turn in an unfamiliar way.

So as soon as he heard his phone ring he picked it up, not checking who the caller was before stumbling out an apology. “Newt, babe, I’m so sorry. I was out of line and I just got mad, I’m really sorry, I hope you’re not too mad-“

 _“Holy shit!”_ Thomas laughed form the other end of the phone, _“What did you do now?”_

“Thomas!” He snaps, heart beat steadying as he curse the brunette, “Why the hell are you calling me at-“ He checks his alarm clock, “-8 o’ clock at night?”

 _“Just wanted to say hello and ask you if I can copy your trig homework,”_ Thomas’ tone darkens, _“But now I want to know what you did to Newt.”_

“Nothing,” he lies, and Thomas sees right thorough him, because if there’s anyone who knows him like Newt does, it’s Thomas.

_“Liar. So what did you do? You didn’t fuck someone else did you, because if you did then I’ll-“_

“Christ no!” He shouts down the line, “I would never do that to Newt.”

 _“Good, because if you ever hurt him Min, I’ll fucking kill you,”_ Thomas promises, but from his tone Minho can tell he’s smiling. Serious, but smiling.

“God, you sound like his dad,” He tells Thomas, who he’s just as sure is lying on his own bed and looking at the ceiling too.

The boy makes a sound to portray his understanding, _“Oh, so it’s a papa Janson problem?”_

“ _Papa_ Janson?” Minho questions.

 _“Yeah,”_ Thomas replies coolly, _“It’s my nickname for him. I think it makes him sound hot.”_

“Fucking hell,” He cries, “What is it with everyone and Newt’s dad?”

_“Simples: He’s hot and I’m a curious gay seventeen year old boy, were destined to be together.”_

Despite himself, Minho laughs, “You’ll have to get in line, I think my mum will beat you to it.”

“ _She’ll have to get in line,” _ Thomas snaps, a hint of seriousness now evident in his tone.

“I think she has a better chance, you know, seeming that he’s straight and three times your fucking age.”

Thomas lets out a whine of protest, the sound of him shuffling on his bed can be heard through the receiver, _“You don’t know that. I’m hot, he’ll fall for me, just you wait.”_

Minho’s scared for him, and for Newt and even slightly for Janson.

“Whatever you say Tommy,” He laughs.

 _“You never call me Tommy, you used to call me it all the time but now its’s just Newt. I mean shuck, we even used to hang out, remember that?”_ Thomas barks at him, Minho rolling his eyes at his frustration.

“We hang out all the time,” He tells him, silently trying to recall the last time he’d seen Thomas.

 _“Math class doesn’t count jackass,”_ Thomas replies, reading his mind in a way he’s always been able to do, since they were kids and Minho told him he didn’t love Newt like that. To Thomas he’s transparent, and unlike Newt he doesn’t like to hide form the truth or fear for the things he’ll see.

“I’m sorry,” Minho tells him honestly, “I’ve just been so busy with running and-“

_“Fucking Newt, I’m well aware. Don’t forget who brought you to hopeless kids together.”_

He’s right, barely two years ago Minho was crushing big time one Newt, loving his hair and his voice and his skin and the things he’d do to him inside his head.  Thomas had demanded he tell him how he felt, Minho had denied all accusations and Thomas had simply hit him in return. _“He likes you too,”_ Thomas promised, “ _But he’s too nervous and stupid to make the first move.”_ Still neither of them did anything, dancing around the subject with unconvincing steps.

So finally, at the cinema after school on one of their day trips as friends, Thomas had arrived with a confident swagger, grabbing Newt’s hand and his and saying: _“For fuck sake we aren’t kids anymore, you like each other so for god’s sake act like it.”_ Then he had left and they had both stared at their conjoined hands and bashfully met each other’s eyes.

To put it simply, Minho owed Thomas everything he had.

“I’m sorry,” He repeated.

Thomas sighed, _“I know, I just feel like the third wheel you know. I just want us to all be friend’s together again.”_

“We’re still friends Tommy, we always will be” Minho promises.

“ _I know, I’m an idiot. We’ll have another thominewt day soon, right?”_

“Course,” Minho swears.

_“Good. Now what the fuck did you do to Newt?”_

Minho sighs, _‘Where does he begin?’_


	2. Dinner with Dad

Minho looks at his outfit in the mirror, skinny jeans and t-shirts was all he could find in his closet.

“You look like a dick,” Thomas tells him, glancing between him and his phone with the same whimsy as the last offensive and entirely unhelpful comments.

He throws a shoe at the brunette when he turns back to his phone, “Are you going to help me or are you going to sit on your ass? You told me you could help me pick out what to wear, so fucking help me.”

Despite his tone, Thomas simply yawns. “Fine, you want my help? Okay, don’t wear that.”

The taller boy growls, primal and threatening but Thomas simply rivals his glare with a cheerful smirk.

“Alright, alright, I’ll help you out,” He bends down into his closet, throwing mismatched items of clothing to the floor in a heap. “Do you have anything that isn’t skinny jeans?” Thomas asks, but the air of humour in his voice suggests the question is rhetorical.

But just to spite the boy Minho replies anyway. “All I have is jeans and running shorts, I wasn’t exactly planning to buy a suit for no reason.”

“What about when you and Newt go on a date?” Thomas questions with burrowed eyebrows, holding a pair of Minho’s underwear in his hands like it was entirely socially acceptable.

Minho looks back down at his outfit, “What’s wrong with this? He’s my boyfriend not a fashion designer, he loves me for me.”

Thomas just laughs, “Sure, sure. Unlike you, Newt _actually_ invites me over like friends do,” He continues despite Minho’s rolling eyes, “And he always calls me or invites me round to ask me what he should wear. You know when you two went to that carnival? Yeah? Newt fretted for two hours to find the _right_ outfit. It would harm you to put a little effort in Min.”

Minho remembered that, Newt had worn shorts, a simple shirt and a cute blue jumper that made his hair stand out in contrast. He had remembered when Newt had walked up to him, the feeling of the sun on his back and the unremorseful loss of his breath as Newt had smiled. But later on, as the sun left them in the cooling darkness and the carnival lights had brightened, Newt had shivered and cursed his short attire. He remembered giving the blonde his jacket and buying him hot food and maybe even holding him a little tighter on the rides.

“It’s weird when you call me Min,” He says to change the topic.

Thomas scoffs, “Why? Because Newt screams it out during sex?”

“Exactly,” He retorts with a grin, Thomas giving him a rounded expression as he shakes the thought off.

The entire content of his wardrobe now lies on his bedroom floor.

“Oh!” The brunette exclaims as he pulls a blue tie off the floor, “This could work.” He finds a simple smart button down shirt and grabs a pair of black skinny jeans.

Minho’s reaction time is quick enough to catch the clothes that Thomas throws at him.

“Put those on,” Thomas demands as he stands up from the chaos that his floor had succumbed to.

He takes off his shirt as instructed, but Thomas gaze is heavy and scrutinizing on his back. “Could you, I don’t know, go somewhere else?”

“Why? Am I going to fall madly in love with you just because I see you shirtless and in your underwear? Min, you always take your clothes off, it’s a real habit of yours and I’m helping you with that problem.” Thomas’ face is abnormally straight as he jokes, making the shirtless boy shuffle. But Thomas’ smile emerges along with a stifling laugh.

The other boy just curses him under his breath.

After getting dressed, interrupted by a few sarcastic cat calls from Thomas, he looks back at his reflection. “I look good,” He tells himself, because this is a very personal moment between him and the mirror. Thomas, like always, only gets in the way.

“You’re welcome, slinthead,” Thomas smiles, looking at his watch with a prideful expression, “It looks like you’re ready just in time.”

Thomas takes his jacket off the bed and prepares for one of his speedy and very dramatic exists. With a simple eye-roll and a few half-heartened attempts to clean his room, Minho leaves behind him.

They don’t even reach the bottom of the stairs before his mother jumps out the living room, “Why didn’t you tell me Thomas was over Min-bin?”

His glare is overpowered by Thomas’ mocking laugh, “Aw, silly _Min-bin_ ,” He mocks while pulling his cheeks. “He just needed me to help dress him because he’s such an _‘ickle_ boy.”

The two laugh as Minho blushes, “Fuck off _Tommy_.”

“But don’t you look handsome Minho, you should invite Thomas round more often,” His mother states as they descend down the last few stairs.

“Exactly what I was saying,” The brunette states, sparing him a serious look that matches the one his mother would give him.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” His mother tells him, “You don’t want to be late.”

At the mention of time Minho curses, taking his jacket from the banister and kissing his mum good bye. When the door closes, Thomas spares him a smile and tries to turn a way.

Minho pulls him back into a forceful hug, “Thanks Tommy. We finally got to spend some of that precious _minmas_ time together.”

Thomas laughs into his chest, “Its  _thominho_ _,_ dumbass.”

They both pull back, their arms still wrapped around one another. “Besides,” Minho tells him, “Our friendship was never like yours and Newt’s. We don’t braid each other’s hair like you and Newt do.” He pauses with a shift in tone, “You and Newt get on better, you always have.”

Thomas winces, eyes wide and questioning, “And why is that?”

Minho holds him close before whispering in his ear, _“Because you’re both super gay.”_

The brunette’s laugh fills the night air, brighter than the street lights. “Says the guy that sucked his boyfriend’s dick at the cinema,” He smirks at Minho’s curious stare, “That’s right, me and Newt talk while we braid each other’s hair.”

Deciding their unusual bonding moment had passed, they released one another.

“Call me soon, yeah?” Thomas tells him as he turns to walk away.

With the most sincere and truthful tone Minho can muster, he speaks. “I promise Tommy.”

The brunette waves goodbye right until he turns down the street, and out of his sights.

 

* * *

 

 

The stove’s heat helps excuse his sweating, Newt shuffling from step to step as he looks at the clock. Minho isn’t late, yet, but the dread in anticipation really wants the whole dinner to be over with as quickly as possible. But in the strangest of ways, Newt was excited. Minho meant the world to him, was the world to him, and his father would be able to see that and accept the boy into their unconventional family. He was too scared to tell his father that he and Minho would most definitely be living together at university, but even the topic of Newt leaving home and no longer cooking meals for him was enough of a topic for arguments sake.

Janson too is tapping his feet, looking at the clock and sighing in an obnoxiously loud scoff. “He’s late,” He says, but Minho isn’t, and Newt can’t spare enough of his patience to correct him.

“He doesn’t have a car Dad, it takes a while to walk here,” Newt excuses in a breathy tone, finishing the final touches for the meal.

 _‘Come on Min,’_ Newt wills, like there’s some sort of telepathic connection between them both, like they used to pretend when they were younger. He, Minho and Thomas always used to do that, send each other silent messages about how much they hated the class they were in or how they couldn’t wait till their trip after school. Sometimes Newt still believed they could, when Thomas and he would exchange looks at Minho’s ignorance or temper, or in the bedroom when Minho would start doing something that wasn’t pre-determined, Newt would silently correct his technique. Although, after spending their lives together, Newt guesses the three of them were at least slightly inclined to start listening.

His father opens his mouth to say something surely cruel, but fortunately it’s cut off by the ringing of the bell.

“I’ll get it!” He cries as his dad stands up, skidding down the hallway and throwing the door open.

Minho looks surprised yet slightly expectant, the look of remorse on his face tells Newt he’s sorry, without having to speak. _‘Yes,’_ Newt concludes, _‘we’re definitely telepathic.’_

“Sorry I’m late,” Minho says, despite the fact he isn’t and all know that except Janson.

Newt simply jumps in his arms in reply, kissing his cheek with an almost excited glee, “Its fine, you’re here and that’s all that matters.” The blonde looks down at his tie and smart attire, “You look handsome.”

“Nothing like myself,” Minho snorts in reply, shuffling in the confinements of his clothes, “I look like a slinthead. Like someone that likes going to libraries and doing school work… you know, like you.”

Newt playfully hits him in return, moving in for another kiss until Janson pulls them apart with a not so subtle cough.

“Uh,” He falters, looking at the blonde for reassurance before cursing his own awkwardness, “H-Hello Sir.”

Janson hums in reply.

Newt shuffles under their stares, taking Minho’s hand in his own and leading him to the kitchen. His boyfriend’s hand is sweaty, silently telling Newt that he’s terrified. He squeezes back reassuringly.

Minho sits down when instructed, barely finishing his prayer before Janson furiously takes his seat opposite him, glaring at him with almost feral eyes. This is when Minho realises his isn’t going to be a dignified affair, finishing off with him and Janson drinking whiskey together in the living room where the man offers a dowry in exchange of Newt’s hand in marriage. He gulps audibly, the sound making Janson smile.

The blonde however, remains oblivious. Taking the warmed plates out the oven and serving dinner. Minho’s senses tell him Newt’s bending down, willing him to marvel at the beauty of his boyfriend’s backside, but he doesn’t dare drop his father’s stare.

With a careful ease, Newt places the three servings on the table, taking the seat next to Minho with the warmest of smiles.

Newt was a fantastic cook, Minho learned this when he’d stayed round and Newt made him pancakes. He had expected something simple when the scent drew up from Newt’s bed barely clothed, but when he walked into the kitchen it was like a scene from a cooking show. Stacks of pancakes, bacon and an assortment of condiments all adorned the table and decoration. At first sight it seemed more than he could stomach, but after his first bite he moaned a moan so clear, it mirrored the ones from the night previously.

The dinner was simple; a classic Newt would call it, a Sunday dinner that his mother taught how to cook. And it smelled delicious.

Newt’s father began to eat, forcefully tearing the meat apart with an uncomfortable fascination.

A pale hand grasped his under the table, Newt giving him and encouraging grin before taking his own fork and beginning to eat.

The silence is unbearable.

Sure enough it’s Janson that breaks the quiet, looking up from his plate and glaring at him from across the table, a table Minho notices is not quite long enough to protect him from the man’s fatherly wrath. “So, _Minho,_ what are you planning to do with your life?” The question is spoken in the illusion of innocence but the violent way he cuts at his food is far too alarming to calm his nerves.

Newt gives him a pointed expression, urging him to answer. “Uh… well if everything goes to plan I’ll get a sports scholarship so I can get a degree in athletics, then-“

 _“-And then?_ What kind of job do you expect to get with an athletics degree?” Janson bites in interruption, Newt silently cursing his father’s callous nature.

 _“Dad!”_ The boy scolds in attempts to calm the atmosphere, silently telling himself that the whole ordeal is far out of his control.

Minho however is brave in the face of the challenge, speaking calmly and chivalrously. “An athlete. I want to be a runner.”

 _“A runner?”_ Janson repeats in disbelief.

His son decides this is his first opportunity to help market his boyfriend. “Yeah dad, Min’s really good at running, he does cross country and-“

Janson cuts him off, keen to have the first and final word. “Well that’s all well and good Isaac, but it isn’t exactly hard to run. And that’s even to say he’s any good…”

“Oh I’m good,” Minho promises, eating his dinner with a casual eccentricity that only he, of all people, could master and withhold under such a glare.

“How good?” Newt’s father questions with an unconvinced idleness.

He still remains calms, but Newt can tell his boyfriend is smiling in arrogance under his balanced expression. “Good enough to be the number one athlete in the nation, for both one hundred and eight hundred meters. Good enough to be approached by Olympic coaches who believe I can compete on an international level.”

Janson barely suppress a growl at Minho’s reply. “So you’re fast,” He bites, “But how are you going to support yourself or-“ He catches himself from saying Newt’s name, afraid it will set the fate in stone, one he will take great pride in smashing to pieces and throwing in the ocean.

Minho levels his stare, “I’ll support myself and my family just fine.” To punctuate his victory, Minho returns to his dinner, the flavour far better without the bitter taste of inferiority in his mouth. A taste he had grown quite sick of over the years.

Newt thinks his father will drop the topic, leaving them continue to eat their dinner in a civil, if not slightly awkward, silence. But when his father turns to him with a disbelieving glare, he realises fate would never be so sweet as to grant him silence.

“So, your little boyfriend’s going to be a runner? Is that really up to scale with your plans, Isaac?” Newt opens his mouth to disagree but his father answers himself, _“No,_ because a doctor would never want to date a runner.”

His son drops his eyes, falling to his barely touched plate of food.

Minho however, wasn’t afraid of confrontation, especially from Newt’s father. “Newt doesn’t want to be a doctor,” He states, taking Newt’s hand into his own.

Janson barks out a cruel laugh, “Oh, and I suppose you’d know that. _Please,”_ He barks sarcastically, “Enlighten me about my own son.”

“He wants to be an artist,” Minho tells him.

When they were younger, they all followed their dreams. Minho would run around the school field with a wide smile on his face, Newt would scribble away in his sketchbook with his tongue in his cheek and Thomas had crushed on all their male teachers and swapped his lunch in return for kisses. Now they were older and slightly less ignorant, their dreams were simply that, a tease of an idea that they’d trick themselves and their daydreams with. Minho still ran but it was more away from things than towards a finish line, Newt still drew but it was in secret where he released his passion and Thomas still kissed boys and crushed on older men, but his parents didn’t know he was gay because he had learned kissing other boys was wrong and he should no longer prostitute himself in return for yogurt.

“Since when?” Janson asked.

Minho looks at the cooling food on his plate before looking back up, “Since forever, you just don’t give enough shits to talk to your son.”

Newt drops his fork, abandoning the desire for hunger and acceptance along with the unrelenting forces of anger and hopelessness.

Eventually Janson breaks he silence. “Okay,” He exclaims, “so we have a finger painter _and_ a runner, that’s great. And when the money disappears and you can’t stand the poverty from our own poor decisions, at least your little boyfriend can run _very_ fast away from you and your problems!”

 _“Fuck you!”_ Minho shouts, gripping his knife so forcefully the beautiful pattern engraves itself on his skin. “I’d never leave Newt, I could never hurt him like that.”

 _‘I’m not like him,’_ He thinks, _‘I’m not like my dad.’_

Janson rivals his words with a strong rumbling laugh that almost shakes the table. “This is _ridiculous_. You come in _my_ house, invade _my_ sons life an then speak to be without _any_ respect-“

 _“Fuck you!”_ Minho repeats, standing with a sudden advantage in terms of both height and volume. “You don’t even know me, you don’t even know your own _son_ because you’re too busy at work or away on business. I don’t owe you my respect, that’s something you have to earn. And so far all you’ve done is disappoint him, pushed him aside when he needed you the most.” He turns to Newt, his volume faltering as he takes in the sight of the boy’ silent tear filled eyes. But that volume strengthens when he turns back to the other man, “And then you have the _audacity_ to tell me that _I’m_ not good enough, that _I_ don’t deserve him.”

Minho throws his napkin down on the table, sparing Newt a long apologetic look that tells him he’s sorry in the silent way they always does. But he doesn’t get a silent reply, just the physical embodiment of his guilt that falls down Newt’s cheeks at a rapid and heart-breaking pace. He turns towards the door.

 _“That’s right,”_ Janson mocks, _“Run away_. It’ll be great practice.”

And like the coward he is, Minho leaves, the night no colder than before but still he shivers and wraps his arms around himself. Then he’s running, so fast his feet can’t even note the harsh strength of tarmac beneath his feet. He’s moving so fast he forgets where he is, who is and what he’s running from.

Newt snatches his father’s plate from his hand, throwing the dishes into the sink and turning on the water. He’s a coward, like everyone else, so he doesn’t turn around when he starts to sob. His father senses it, not cowardly enough to pretend his son’s okay, that he isn’t falling apart inside.

“Newt-” He breathes in a sympathetic voice, but his son silences all thoughts in his head with an anger that is far harsher than Minho’s ever will be.

“No,” He sobs, scrubbing the plates with harsh violent strokes as he lets the tears fall from his eyes, “I’ll wash the dishes and clean the kitchen and you can go to bed and pretend I don’t exist in the morning.”

“Newt-“

“Go!” He cries, refusing to turn around to see his father look apologetic, a look he would have loved to have seen any other day but today.

Janson leaves his son in the kitchen, walking up the stairs to fulfil the prophecy. But as he walks across the landing he sees his son’s light on, walking into Newt’s room and actually seeing what lies before his eyes. There are drawings, beautiful accurate drawings that paint themselves across the walls and scatter across his desk. They’re wonderful, so much like Newt, drawings of objects that although looked forced but masterful, contrasting the drawings of characters and people that look far less restricted. Above his bed is a simple sketch, two boys holding each other in excuses of love as they lie on the bed smiling. Newt’s the boy who drew it, the little signature ‘ _N_ ’ in the corner showing its sincerity, and Newt’s also the boy in the drawing.

There, in the doorway, Janson sees. He sees his son for the first time. All the times before he just saw Newt asleep or absent, the shirtless boy in his closet or the disappearing condoms in his bedside table.

This time Janson sees Newt for what he really is, a stranger. And he hates himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight angst, I promise there'll be smut very soon. Thank you for reading, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!


	3. The Learning Curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5,000 words of smut. I don't know what happened, but I was powerless to stop it.

In the past when Newt was sad as a child, Janson would bring him a hot coco, three spoons exactly in his favourite mug. His son would then sit on his lap and tell him what was wrong or he’d read the little bundle of blonde hair in his chest a bedtime story. It always ended the same way, Newt fast asleep with a small smile on his lips.

Now, armoured with Newt’s old beloved mug, Janson couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, as if he were in unwanted territory. Eventually he grows the courage to knock, waiting for a scream or swear word to reply his uneasiness, causing him to retreat to the kitchen to mull over his failures.

Taking the silence as consent, he enters, the hot mug of coco in his hands threatening to splash on the carpet as his shakes.

Newt looks over to him briefly before furrowing his eyebrows in protest and turning back to his sketchbook.

“I made you a hot chocolate,” He announces with a small smile, “Just the way you like it.” The scribbling sound of Newt’s pencil is the only indication that the boy is still present. Janson sighs in defeat, “Isaac, I just want to talk.”

His son snorts, “So you wanna’ talk? What was wrong with yesterday or a week ago, or how about five years ago when mum died?” Newt doesn’t stop despite the obvious sensitivities that unravel at the harsh salt of his words. “Oh, that’s right. That’s when _I_ wanted to talk. Shuck, I forgot we only talk when you want to.”

The sound of his pencil is violent, the indent in the paper deepening at the intrusion.

“Like when I fail a science test,” Newt growls, “Or when I burn dinner, or when I get in a fight at school because someone calls me a faggot.”

His pencil shatters in his tense grip, a splinter sticking into his thumb.

“Or when I get a boyfriend that you hate because he isn’t like you.”

Janson tries to speak, but his son’s name doesn’t articulate itself on his tongue. He fears to say it, like the stuttering sentence will reveal his true ignorance. So all he says is “sorry,” hoping that somehow his sincerity makes itself known in the small and empty sounding words.

Now the sound of Newt crying fills the air, the small sniffles are reminiscent from his childhood years of scraped knees and bee stings. The sound that tells him his son is hurt and he, as his father, has failed.

“Sorry just isn’t gonna’ cut it this time,” Newt snaps.

The boy still doesn’t turn around, starting at the canvas of his ruined page like it holds some kind of answer. But it doesn’t, things weren’t ever that easy.

Janson moves, slowly and cautiously towards Newt’s bed. He places the cooling drink on his bed side table, his hands twitching at their emptiness. Newt turns to him with anger, but Janson’s eyes hold nothing but insecurity.

“Then what should I say?” He asks, but Newt doesn’t give him an answer because there isn’t one. Things aren’t ever that easy.

Newt’s anger lessens, the years of resentment slipping with the realisation that nobody was really at fault. His father was ignorant and borderline neglectful, but that’s what fate had made him. When his mother had died, his father was lost, falling into work because it was all that he knew. Sometimes he forgets his father’s human and not some idea and status he either achieves or disappoints.

The blonde starts to cry at his uncertainties, Janson moving closer and awkwardly holding him like he doesn’t know what to do. Because he doesn’t, and the weight of Newt in his arms is unfamiliar. Newt wets his shirt and neck with his tears, his father trying to sooth them away with hopefully reassuring sounds.

“I miss mum,” Newt whimpers into his chest.

“I know sweetheart,” Janson whispers back, “I do too.” He holds Newt for what feels like forever, his ego crumbling into a familiar and reminiscent stance of fatherly love. “She’d know what to do,” He tells his son, “She’s clip us both round the ear and tell us the solution to all our problems.”

The bundle in his arms laughs, vibrating his chest with the warmest of sensations, “She would. She always knew what to do.”

His father laughs as well, “I remember when we moved to America, all three of us in the airport and suddenly you started crying and blubbering. She just held you like it was nothing and I just said _‘America will be great champ’_ but you weren’t listening. You cried because you left your toy, eh, what was it? The little elephant called-“

 _“Cow,”_ They smile in unison.

“And then your mother, she just went into her purse and I half expected her to pull him out. But she didn’t. She just gave you some money and told you to go buy a new Cow, because she told you the old one was guarding the house away from robbers,” He laughs at the memory, “And then you asked if he had a gun and she nodded so sincerely I almost believed her myself.”

Janson realises he’s crying, the last words crumbling into a sob he had never dared release after so many years. And this time, Newt there to hold him as he cries.

They stay like that for an eternity, just choking out tears and wincing at the force of the past, haunting them like something they love and hate to remember.

Newt pulls away, eyes bleary and unsure. “But why did everything have to die with her, we knew she was sick and… and that she would die but- but why did are family have to fall apart too?”

“Because I’m weak,” He tells Newt like the simplest of things, “Because your mother was my everything and I was too selfish to remember you, my little man who meant the whole world and more to me.” He holds Newt’s wet cheek in his hand, small and fragile. “You look so much like her, your hair, your eyes, your smile. The way you furrow your eyebrows when you’re mad and how you always tilt your head to the side when you lie,” his son’s face softens under his stare, “You look so much like her, too much like her that sometimes I pretend she never left.”

Newt’s eyelashes flutter away the tears, “I just want everything to be okay again. I just want to have a family like we used to have and start one of my own.” His gaze becomes determined when he looks back up at his father, “I love Minho with all my heart, he _is_ my family. He and Thomas were always there for me, always have been. But… But you just don’t get that, either that or you don’t care. I love him dad, but you just don’t get it.”

Janson looks at the ceiling in hopes of finding the inspiration to articulate his words accordingly, but things weren’t ever that easy. “I do get it son,” He swears as he snakes his fingers through his hair, “I just. It’s hard. I-I lost your mother, I couldn’t stop it. But you, you’re the only thing I do have and I can’t, I can’t live without you Newt. I’m scared you and Minho will fall in love, get married and move away. And then it’ll be too late to say sorry, because it already is. Maybe then you won’t need to come home, won’t need me to comfort you because I’m not there and I never have been.”

“Dad,” Newt sighs, “I love Minho with all my heart, and no matter what people say I know we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. He’s _my_ everything, like mum was to you and I can’t let him go, I won’t because then he’ll disappear like everything else. Like mum.” He smiles at his father, the tears finally drying, “But I’ll always need you dad, I’ll always love you and you’ll always be there.”

The blonde’s laugh fills the air with a casual breeze that silences all thoughts of doubt.

Janson turns to him in confusion. “You’re stupid,” His son tells him, “You’re scared I’ll push you away so _you_ push me away. You’re stupid.”

“You’re lucky you got your mother’s brains,” Janson smirks.

And after a calm and comfortable silence he catches his son’s eyes again. “I’m really sorry about what I said, about Minho and your relationship and… and your art.”

“You’re not mad that I don’t want to be a doctor?” Newt asks.

“Of course not,” His father relies, “Just tell me what you want, don’t just shuffle round the subject and hide it away.”

Newt’s eyes fall to the floor, “But you’re never here to talk to.”

He sighs. “I’m going to be here now, I’m not going to ignore you or our problems anymore,” He smile at Newt’s sudden brightness, “I called in work, told them there were things far more important than paperwork.”

“You quit?” Newt gasps.

“No, don’t be silly. We still need the money for us to live off and you need money for university. I just told them I’ll need less hours; make up for lost time with my son.”

Newt’s troubles leave him, like a breath of fresh air that sounds unapologetically into the room.

Janson can’t believe how simple it was, how little time it took for him to make his son smile again. He’s ashamed it took so long to get here.

They emerge themselves in an embrace, pulled apart by the ringing of Janson’s phone.

“Is it work?” Newt asks with an unsure bite of his lip, the sign that used to tell Janson that his wife was nervous or that Newt had flooded the bathroom as a child. The look that tells Janson he knows his son after all.

“You should go,” His son orders, Newt’s unsure eyes flickering between him and his phone.

“N-No, I told you we were going to spend some time together and-“

Newt cuts him off, “We’ve been talking for an hour dad, my hot chocolates practically grown mould on it. Go to work, I’ll be fine.”

Newt’s eyes are bright and convincing, his eyes could make any man do anything, the power he was far too familiar with from the boy’s mother. “Okay,” He concludes, smiling freely at the weightlessness of the moment, “I’ll be back later.” Janson stands to leave, looking down at his son so small on the mattress. He brings his son into his arms and squeezes him, not hiding his smile when Newt returns the gesture. He wills himself to pull away, Newt looking much wiser and older when he smiled, “Newt,” he tells his son, “When Minho gets here… tell him. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“I will,” Newt promises as he throws himself at his father again, “Thank you dad!”

Janson changes into his work clothes and grabs his car keys from the fruit bowl, exiting the door into the winter afternoon. When he turns around he sees Newt, smiling and waving from the window, his other hand occupied with his mobile phone. Newt turns away before he does, and Janson could see the unmissable amount of love and happiness in his eyes as he speaks into his phone, resting his head against the window in the hopeless motion of love. He decides then that maybe Minho isn’t such a bad influence, especially if he made Newt shine the way he does.

And he knows, he just knows, that his wife is smiling down on them with an amused shake of her head.

 

* * *

 

 

Running home in the rain yesterday had resulted in Minho catching a cold, his mother cursing at him as he arrived shivering and shuffling. She had made him a tea, too milky and with not enough sugar, and asked him what had happened. He could barely get through his explanation before he dissolved in to tears. He told her everything eventually, even admitting his fears of turning out like his father which his mother replied with a sad sigh and a well-aimed punch to his arm.

 _“You may have got your father’s good looks,”_ She told him, _“But you got everything else from me and I don’t know if you’ve noticed Min-bin, but I’m pretty fucking awesome.”_

They both laughed as Minho dried his eyes, promising that when the next day dawned everything would work itself out.

And his mother of course was right, as she always is, Newt calling him over with an unaffected joy as he told him everything. The silent promise of sex was obvious, but both of them swore it was a given now. At least now they could fuck knowing Newt’s dad wouldn’t kill him for it or have to be pushed back into the wardrobe.

He knocks on Newt’s door, barely waiting a full second before the blonde throws himself into his arms.

“Sorry,” Minho tells him as they fall into an embrace.

Newt grabs him tighter, like their falling again only this time Minho’s the anchor. “Shut up Min, I’m really bloody tired of people sayin’ sorry.”

They pull a part, their gaze magnetic and forceful in the most natural way possible. The two read the love, the forgiveness and the forevers as a constant, as a poem they learned and can now recite from memory. If it were any other day, the both would of dry heave at the cheesy embrace, but for now it would signal the start of something brilliant.

And just when Newt thinks the birds will start tweeting and the music will start playing, Minho sneezes in his face.

“What the fuck Min!” Newt curses, drying his face with his sleeve as Minho registers the action.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’ve got a cold-“

“Stop saying sorry!” Newt barks, scowling in a way he hopes doesn’t make him look like a pouting child.

With a dry face and no doubt a number of Minho-cooties, Newt kisses him again, half in spite and the other in love. But mostly in spite.

Minho, like always, deepens the kiss. He rubs his tongue across Newt’s lips without waiting for a reply, opening his mouth and exploring the familiar territory. As soon as Newt moans he leans forward, hands subtlety descending down Newt’s back until he reaches his-

“Minho!” The blonde whines, resisting the urge both push him away and hold him closer. “We’re supposed to be celebrating, not shucking in the doorway.”

The older boy smirks, “What’s the difference?”

In vain Newt tries to speak, but Minho or the universe dictate him to do so. Although right now, Newt can’t separate the meaning between the two anymore.

Newt wants this, he needs this. After their first time he had become something he barely recognised. What was once a whole was now an absence, a cavity, and as vulgar as it sounded he _needed_ to be filled. And he knows Minho can feel it to, their electricity and hormones sense one another, merging together and begging their minds to do something or anything to make the pain of nothingness disappear. So like clockwork, the world restores itself to its usual stance of holding and kissing and thrusting.

“U-Upstairs,” Newt bites out between kisses.

Their legs shiver, Newt smaller and feebler is more vulnerable to the sensation, echoing throughout his bones in protest. Minho’s hands are strong on his thighs, lifting him up like he’s nothing yet everything and carrying him upstairs. Half way up the stairs Newt sways their movements to the wall, his back smacking against it in a passionate ignorance he’s sure will leave bruises tomorrow. But right now all that matters is their shared oxygen and Minho’s arousal rutting against his backside.

The rational and almost entirely non-existent part of Minho’s consciousness tells him it’s dangerous, that they could easily fall down the stairs and break their necks. But the spontaneous and feral part of his desire wills it to happen, wills them to be a tangle of limbs and force. The thought that his sanity is able to breach such boundaries was almost terrifying, but not even the idea was enough tear them apart.

Newt’s whimper repeats the same instruction, forcing Minho to pull back and carry them the last few steps. Blindly he walks backwards, hoping his memory and his searching hand can locate Newt’s bedroom before they give up and decide to fuck in the hallway. The weight in his arm is holding on tightly, his chest flush against his until Minho swears he can almost taste the other boy’s heartbeat.

By luck, if anything else, they fall against a door that opens under the pressure of their conjoined bodies. In a heap they fall to Newt’s bed, Minho tumbling on top of the blonde as he finally pulls away in dire need of air. Newt is beautiful, his hair fanned out against the canvas of his sheets and his eyes twinkling in anticipation. Minho’s eyes fall to his swollen lips and the trail of saliva that runs down the boy’s chin. He would eat the boy if it weren’t morally wrong and he wouldn’t miss him, but for now he’d settle with just fucking him into the mattress.

Hands push his shoulders back as he leans into another kiss. “What are we going to do?” Newt asks in the breathless tone he always uses before they have sex.

When he’d first asked Minho had raised an eyebrow and said, _“We’re going to have sex… right?”_ But Newt had blushed and told him he’d like to know to prepare himself, like Minho was going to beat him up or push him off a cliff. He had simply laughed though, the whole conversation the epitome of Newt. The blonde planned everything, a fact he both loved and hated about his lover. School projects always consisted of Newt writing a detailed step by step plan while he and Thomas complained and ate snacks. Even their first kiss Newt had talked him through, his eyes wide in the moonlight as he leaned in closer. “ _You go right,”_ he had said, and Minho did because it was Newt and he needed him just like he needed him now.

Newt liked the security of knowing what Minho wanted, liked writing it subconsciously in his memory to factor up his dislikes and likes, victories and mistakes.

“I don’t know,” Minho tells him, “Do you want to do the usual or…” Suddenly his mind is reeling in possibility. Newt raises an eyebrow at his smirk, following his boyfriend’s eyes to the closet.

“W-What?” He asks nervously, hating the others confident grin.

Minho only smiles, “How about we do something a little… _different.”_

His mouth opens to question the unclear euphemism. The warmth above him disappears and joyfully walks to his wardrobe.

“What are you doing?” He asks at the sudden interruption, Minho only bending down in his closet and searching for something. It’s then that the realisation hits him.

Sure enough Minho’s standing there, armed with his vibrator and mischievous smirk.

Newt thinks he gulps, but he can’t be sure

Minho laughs at his reddening cheeks, the blonde below him avoiding his stare. “I-I,” Newt excuses, “I don’t use it. I mean, I brought it but I haven’t, I don’t-“

Newt whimpers at the warm breath on his ear “I think we both know that’s a lie,” Minho states, voice husky and full of sex.

This time Newt knows he gulps.

He remembered when he had brought it, egged on by Thomas’ words and the curious and entirely scientific part of Newt’s mind. The shop was small and fairly empty, fulfilling his suspicions that this certainly wasn’t a place he wanted to be seen in. He couldn’t imagine the embarrassment if Minho or one of his friends from school saw him, and certainly not his father. If his mother was looking down on him, and he prayed she weren’t, he feared she’d be ashamed. The feeling of sin was tangible in the small sex shop, sharp yet dull, a sensation Newt pretended didn’t excite him. The shopkeeper had asked him if he wanted a hand, a statement the blonde was sure had other alternative meanings, but Newt had refused profusely. He ended up leaving with the smallest toy in the shop, a simple pale vibrator that he could easily hide away from anyone’s knowledge.

He supposes he’s failed, or succeeded, whichever way he wanted to look at his current situation.

“What are we gonna’ do?” Newt asks as he finally meets his boyfriend’s eyes, “I mean, are we still gonna’ have sex?”

Minho grabs his cheek, holds him like he’s made of ceramic and could shatter underneath his gaze. “We can do whatever you want. I just had the idea that I could indulge you a little bit.”

Subconsciously Newt leans into the warmth of his hand, “B-But what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Minho dismisses, “I don’t exactly pity me getting to see you cum. In fact, I’d say I have the best view in the house.”

He opens his mouth to protest more, but a soft kiss on his mouth interrupts all other thoughts.

Minho’s eyes are full of intensity, “Is that alright? I’m not going to do anything without your consent.”

Words fail to form, the close proximity and imagery making Newt forget how to speak. He just nods.

Strong hands lift his shirt over his head, tangling within the reality of their movements as they stroke his body. Newt lies only in his boxers, moving closer to Minho to relive the pressure of his arousal in the constrictions of his clothes. His small hands meet the expanse of Minho’s bare chest, caressing the skin with cold hands before unbuttoning his jeans. He pushes the denim down just below his backside, too overcome with determination he abandons the thoughts of nakedness and instead pulls down the other’s boxers, exposing his cock into the air.

“Shuck!” Minho curses when his cold hands squeeze is cock.

Newt sits up with a cheeky smile, pressing himself against his body. “Newt, stop,” Minho scolds, pushing the boy back on the bed with a careful ease, “This is supposed to be about you.”

Minho slips the boy’s boxer shorts off, marvelling at the beauty of his pale skin.

“But why?” He asks, Minho trying to recall what on earth he had said.

“Because you’re beautiful,” He tells the blonde when he remembers, kissing his inner thigh and smiling into his skin when the other moans.

Newt reaches down to Minho’s hair to pull him up, only to find he just pushes him closer.

Minho makes sure to leave a mark, bright and crude on his inner thigh, hoping it will stay until tomorrow so when they change for gym class everyone will see his possessive marks. He takes the bottle of lube out Newt’s draw, slicking his fingers up and pushing the first in.

He recalled their first time, the tears and the insecurities that cracked the surface of perfection. But over time they’d gotten better, Minho learned how to prepare him, how to make the blonde curse when he found his prostate. When Newt’s breath evens out he adds another, curling his fingers this time as he reaches further and slightly to the right. Newt arches his back to signal his victory, begging for more and faster and harder like he always does. He loved how fast Newt would fall from his usual articulate self to a puddle of curses and begs while he rutted up from the mattress. It made Minho feel like he was in control, like Newt needed him to function properly.

The third and final finger is added into the boy, swallowed effortlessly by his warmth. Knowing that Newt’s body remembered him was perfect, that his hole twitched when he watched it and how easily it would part itself into the shape of Minho’s body. His erection throbbed at the thought, grinning at the realisation that his body knew Newt just as well.

“I’m ready,” Newt whimpers, lifting Minho’s stare form his hole to his pleading eyes. The Asian boy has to remind himself to not penetrate him, putting the condom down and instead grabbing the toy. The weight of it unfamiliar in his hands, but Newt’s voice pulls him from his doubts.

“J-Just lube it up, alright?” Minho follows his instructions and slicks up the toy, raising his head when it’s thoroughly coated to await his next instruction. “Now- _shuck_ , you’re supposed to put a condom on.”

“What?” Minho exclaims.

Newt shuffles under his stare, “I-I read that you were supposed to put condoms on sex toys, I dunno, something about STD’s or something.”

“You didn’t’… _borrow_ it did you?” The other boy asks in reply.

“No! I brought in brand new,” He excuses.

Minho leans up and kisses him, “Then don’t worry, I think it’s just if you share your toys and stuff. You aren’t going to get pregnant or diseased by a bit of plastic, babe.”

The blonde blushes, “Fuck you.”

“Oh,” Minho grins against his lips, “I will.”

The toy shines in the artificial light, drawing all their attention to the promise of pleasure. Minho leaves him with a long drawn out kiss before travelling back down until he’s face to face with his hole. Looking to the blonde for his nod to continue, he slowly pushes the plastic inside his boyfriend.

When Newt would ride him he’d see the strain of the blonde’s body as he sank down, the clenching of his boundaries disappearing as he gave into the sensation of Minho’s body.

But now he could see everything, every shiver and movement of the boy’s body was his to see, the way his toes twitched and face twisted in pleasure as he was entered. Minho pushed the toy in deeper, angling it towards his prostate as he began fucking him with it. Newt cried out a moan, body thriving under his eyes as the whole toy ceased to exist outside his body. And just when he swore it couldn’t feel much better, Minho turned the toy on to its lowest setting. A faint yet steady hum could be heard, strengthening as Minho turned up the setting.

“Uh, it’s too much!” Newt moaned in protest, trying unsuccessfully to lessen the teasing vibrations on his prostate.

Minho grinned at the challenge, turning the toy up to its highest setting and stroking Newt’s length. Today he swore he’d set a record time for Newt to cum, a score he’d swear to beat tomorrow.

A gargling whimper leaves Newt’s mouth, but the steady vibrations echo throughout his body in aims of scrambling any coherent thought. The sensations were too much. All the other times Newt used the toy, alone an in private of course, he’d ease himself into the pleasure, only daring to turn the toy to its second setting. He’d close his eyes and think about Minho and his cock and his hands and his everything and anything that could fuck him, be at one with him as he dreams of the force of their sex. But now with Minho fucking him with the toy, relentlessly and without any remorse, Newt knew he wouldn’t last long.

Minho ghosts his breath across Newt’s erection, teasing him with his warmth as the blonde moans into his whimpers. He moves his spare hand down from his head, rubbing Newt’s balls with his fingertips in the way he knows makes the boy a puddle.

“M-Minho!” He practically screams, hoping for Minho to rescue him from the mist of his arousal. But when he thrust the toy in and out of his entrance, Newt wishes for him to stop. “I-I,” He chokes, but before he can finish his sentence or at least remember what was important enough to say, he’s cumming, too quick yet too fast for his foggy brain to understand.

His body rocks with aftershocks, the vibrator’s tremor against his walls far too intrusive on his sensitive prostate. The pleasure turns to torture as he comes down from his almighty high, Minho taking note of his sighs as he turns the toy off and slowly pulls it out. A small drop of lube falls from his entrance, adding to the messy stains of his cum and sweat on the bed covers.

“That was-” He starts, but his brain is too fried to dare finish the rest of the sentence. His bones are liquid, his great mind a puddle on the sheets. But Minho’s hands are gentle, stroking his hips in appreciation as he kisses him lightly on the cheek.

“That was amazing,” Minho finishes, reading his thoughts. But all he can do is grunt in acknowledgement. “God,” He continues, “I want to watch you cum every single day, for the rest of my life.”

Newt snorts into his chest, “That was the shittiest proposal ever.” The blondes’ voice is so weak he believes his words lost themselves in the musky air, but Minho laughs in recognition.

They lie side by side, staring at Newt’s ceiling with only the steady thrum of silence distancing themselves from one another. Newt begins to recover, his brain remembering how to move and breathe finally. He looks to Minho with tired eyes, watching him watch him with the utmost satisfaction. Their eyes say, ‘I love you’ and their breath tells them ‘forever,’ but then Newt looks down and sees Minho’s erection that tells him they are far from finished. Newt leans to the side and kisses his neck, taking his arousal into his hands and stroking slowly.

“No Newt,” Minho dismisses, “I’m fine. I’ll just have a cold shower or-“

But Newt isn’t listening, he moves to tower above him, nipping down his chest till he’s eye level with his bunched up jeans. He slips the last of Minho’s clothes off, looking up through his eyelashes at his boyfriends strong yet cautious eyes. To test the waters Newt leans closer, opening his mouth and licking the head of Minho’s cock with tenacity.

Minho strokes his hair with conscious eyes, “Babe you don’t have to, especially not…”

Newt knows how the sentence ends, sensing his boyfriends hesitance. The blonde had never performed oral sex before, he lacked the confidence and spontaneity to try but Minho was always keen, taking him into his mouth with confidence and admiration. Whenever Minho finished him off with his mouth, Newt would always just give a simple handjob in return, fearing his boyfriend would judge his prude nature.

 He couldn’t explain why the idea scared him, he supposed it came from his irrational fear or choking on food. Once at a fairground when they were much younger, Thomas’ parents had brought them healthy snacks as always and, as a cruel and unamusing joke, Thomas thought it was funny to push him over when he was eating a banana. He remembered the sensation of his air being cut off, crying at his acceptance of death before Thomas’ father had hit him hard on the back. He had thrown up on the grass, Thomas entirely apologetic if hot a little amused and Minho looking worried. He had gotten over his fear of bananas, a fact he was quite proud of until Thomas reminded him it was pretty irrational in the first place.

But Thomas was always at the center of his irrationality, him and his mischievous smirk.

Newt told himself he was being stupid, giving Minho a reassuring smile as he looked back to the boy’s length. Minho was far larger than him in both size and girth, and Newt’s mouth was a lot smaller. He fears trying to fit the cock in his mouth will be like jamming together two puzzle pieces that don’t fit and jumping on them to force them to connect. He gulps, reminding himself that it was just a penis and Thomas wasn’t around to push him face first on Minho’s dick.

“It’s fine,” Newt tells him, partly a lie but he isn’t quite sure, “I want to finish what I was gonna’ start before dad came home last time.” In the heat of the moment a few days ago, sucking a dick didn’t seem like a big deal, but suddenly when he was face to face with the problem at hand, the whole ordeal seemed a little more taxing.

“Just go slow, yeah?” Minho tells him, stroking his hair softly in the reassuring way he always does.

“Okay,” Newt tells both Minho and himself. He bites his lip to delay it a little further, “It’s just, I-I don’t mind… _putting_ it in my mouth but I…” His words trail off, but Minho can’t piece together the meaning behind the words so he wills himself to continue, “Just… I don’t really like the idea of you,” He shuffles, “ _Cumming_ in my throat.”

Minho tries to hide his smile, fearing Newt will interpret the action as mocking and not in fascination. Mere minutes ago Newt was cursing at him and begging his to let him cum, now even the very word induced awkwardness and a blush to rest heavily on his cheeks.

“That’s fine Newt, you don’t have to swallow, hell you don’t even have to touch me if you don’t want,” He smiles down at the bashful lump of blonde hair in his lap, “I’ll stop you just before I cum.”

“What do you mean?” Newt asks.

“Like I’d pull out and you could… I dunno’ finish me off with your hand or whatever, so I don’t cum in your mouth,” Minho tells him.

Newt nods, “Oh, okay. You’ll let me know when… you know _if_ you cum.”

“Trust me sweetheart,” Minho grins, “I’ll definitely cum.”

His words seem to ignite an excitement within him, a rush of confidence booted his brain into full power. He would do this, he could do this, he was going to make Minho cum and then…. Well that was if he didn’t choke to death on his dick first. _‘God,’_ Newt thought, _‘that would be the most embarrassing way to die. Isaac Newton, died the gayest death ever, choking on his boyfriends dick.’_ And Minho would feel so guilty, he’d never forgive himself, never find the will to fall in love in fear of his own dick. It would be like one of those romantic comedies Minho pretended he didn’t love, where the ghost of the ex-lover had to teach their partner to love again and move on. Newt couldn’t do that, he was far too insecure and that was a _lot_ of pressure to place on someone who had died _. ‘What on earth are you on about?’_ Newt scolds himself, _‘Stop procrastinating for once in your life and shucking suck his dick.’_

With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, Newt nods a welcome to Minho’s’ cock and takes it in his hands. He tried to replay the times Mino had gave him a blowjob, what technique he did and what he did with his hands. But Newt’s hands were too small, inches of Minho’s erection not even fitting in his grasp. Not knowing what else to do, Newt just licks the head again, the salty musk of his pre-cum a rather acquired taste, but he soldiers on. Eventually, after several hesitant licks to the head, Newt decides to treat the cock like some sort of food product, like a popsicle. He parts his lips to take in the first inch of his cock, sucking slowly. Minho’s moan encourages him on and he takes another inch into his mouth, but then the other’s moans erupt into pained curses that pull his hair off his dick.

“Teeth,” Minho winces.

Newt looks back down at his cock, barely a third of it even wet with saliva. “S-sorry.” Silently he corrects himself, _‘Definitely don’t treat his dick like food.’_

“It’s fine babe, just… just put your lips over your teeth, yeah?” Newt complies to his orders, realise he probably looks like a grandma with his facial expression but hey, it was part of the learning curve. “Yeah like that, and, uh, relax your jaw.” The blonde takes him back into his mouth, the weight hot and heavy on his tongue. He sucks again, feeling more confident when Minho strokes his head and sighs.

But after a few simple minutes of moans and Newt’s inflating ego, he gets too cocky and tries to take the rest of his length. He moves too quickly, reliving the banana fiasco and suddenly he’s coughing and choking ad tears form in his eyes. He calms himself through his traumatic flashbacks, willing himself not to throw up in Minho’s lap or develop and irrational fear of his boyfriends dick, because that would be more than a little problematic.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” Minho smiles down at him, “Just remember to breathe out your nose, you know, so you don’t choke again.”

Large hands grip Newt’s hair, carefully pushing him back down. Newt preferred it this way, like Minho was coaxing him through it like a new hobby or video game. His length slides in far easier this time, lubricated with the saliva on his lips and the familiarity that was making the whole exchange a lot more comfortable. This time he makes sure to press his tongue into the underside of his cock, letting his rhythm fall in tune to Minho’s’ shallow and almost non-existent thrusts.

Looking up at Minho was amazing, seeing his eyes roll back and his jaw tighten in pleasure, looking strangely vulnerable and undisguised. Minho always wore a façade, even with him and Thomas and even his own mother, he liked to pretend he wasn’t scared of the thunder or that hated himself just a little. But what Minho didn’t know was that he was a rubbish actor, and Newt could see right through him, could see all the raw and vulnerable parts of himself that whimpered at his intrusion.

Minho was like an open book to him, one he classed his favourite and put on the prettiest and private shelf for later reading.

He’s brought back to realty by the stretching of his mouth over another inch of Minho’s cock. He only uses one hand now to stroke the last inches he doesn’t dare take into his mouth, bobbing his head with vigor as he eases into the sensation of Minho fucking his mouth. He can tell by the bite of his lip that Minho is trying so desperately not to throw away all solid thought and nurture as to choke him. Newt sucks harder to tell him to fuck him, wanting the older boy to use him for his own pleasure.

His back arches of the bed, cursing the wet warmth on his cock, “Shuck Newt, you’re so-“

Newt takes him back out his mouth, licking the full length of his cock with lazy strokes of his tongue. He waits for Minho’s reaction, watching the way he squirms when he moves his foreskin down with his tongue and teases the sensitive skin. Changing his technique Newt goes back to sucking, taking the majority of the length into his throat and bobbing. Minho grabs his locks and starts thrusting, too lost in the sensation of everything that was Newt, silently hoping he isn’t hurting the blonde. Newt smiles, the emotion only presenting as a small twist of his lips that stretches over Minho’s cock, humming in reply that only sends the boy deeper into the point of no return.

“Shuck Newt,” He moans, knowing he won’t last much longer.

The blonde sees to notice this too, strengthening the strokes of his hand and the pressure behind his sucks. Vulgar wet sounds fill Newt’s room, the idea of indecency strengthened by the dribble of saliva that slips downs Newt’s chin.

When he looks down, Minho’s engulfed cock seems to twitch in appreciation.

“Newt, I’m gonna-“

But his words are cut off with a gurgle and a yelp. As he pulled Newt’s head away to warn him of his release, one that came far too quickly for Minho to predict, the blonde catches his teeth ever so slightly on the head of his erection. The pain merges into the pleasure and he releases, the white spurts of his cum coating themselves across Newt’s face, expression surprised and confused.

It takes the two a few seconds to realise what happened.

“Oh my god Newt, I-I’m so sorry,” He half yells, moving closer to Newt to hope the blonde will catch the sincerity in his expression.

Newt just glares at him, cum dripping from his face in strings, “What the fuck Minho! I didn’t want to swallow it so why the bloody hell would I want it on my face. Oh my God! It’s in my eye.”

Minho jumps up, taking a towel from Newt’s bathroom and handing it to the fuming cum-soaked blonde.

“I-It was an accident, I swear. I’m so sorry Newt.”

The boy just dries his face with the towel, the sticky remnants of Minho’s release feeling uncomfortable on his pale skin. A few clumps are in his hair, cursing at the grimy feeling. “I feel dirty,” Newt tells him, looking towards him with the cutest wide eye look. Minho would call him innocent if it weren’t for the dried cum on his face.

He holds the blonde’s face in his hands, resisting the urge to wince at the knowledge that he’s touching his own cum, a sensation he’s barely familiar with after first sleeping with Newt a few months back. “How about we take a shower?” He suggests.

“Fine,” Newt mutters glumly, standing up and picking up the dirty towel. As he walks to his bathroom, he turns back to his boyfriend with a mischievous smirk, “But only of you kiss me first.”

Without thinking twice Minho leans in for a small peck on the lips, spitting on the floor after realising, “Uh, gross Newt! I didn’t want to taste my own cum you fucker!”

“Call it pay back,” Newt replies, turning the shower on. And Minho forgives him, because after all he loves him, but mostly because his butt was perfect. They stand together in the shower, scrubbing each other clean and then just joking round, Newt styling Minho’s’ hair with shampoo and Minho pinching his bum when he bent down.

Downstairs Janson bashfully shifts from foot to foot, deciding that he most definitely should come back later to tell Newt he got the day off from work. Somethings just _couldn’t_ be unheard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a little disjointed, I'm not overly happy with it but what the hell. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, and thank you all so much for the kudos!
> 
> Next chapter should be the last one, just a short chapter to tie up all loose ends. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. The Promise of Everything

 

Everything was perfect, Newt asleep and dribbling on his chest, the silence of the new day and the promise that they could stay like this for the rest of eternity. That was until Newt’s alarm released a beep that assaulted their warm and peaceful space.

“Why the shuck do you have an alarm on a Sunday morning?” Minho moans to the bundle on his chest.

Newt looks up to him through his eyelashes, blinking away the sleep from his bight eyes. “I don’t,” the blonde tells him, “It’s Monday.”

Their fatigue and laziness dismisses the words casually, sinking deeper into their embrace and the creaking of the mattress. Everything was perfect, Newt-

“Wait,” Minho asks in interruption of his own thoughts, “Did you say it was Monday?”

He feels Newt nod into his chest.

Minho growls in frustration at Newt’s ignorance. “You mean Monday, Monday?” Newt nods. “As in Monday the school day?” Another nod. “As in Monday the _‘we have to be at school in an hour and all my school stuff and clothes are at my house’_ Monday?” Bright brown eyes look at him with a bite of his lip.

“I forgot Min, I wouldn’t have told you to stay the night if I knew!” Newt cries like a child, hugging his chest with an apologetic force that makes Minho’s attempts at escape useless.

“If I’m late again our form teacher’s going to kill me,” Minho moans. Newt nods. “She’ll cut me up in to little pieces,” Another nod. “She’ll feed me to her cats.”

Newt snores in reply.

“Shucking hell Newt wake up!”

The smaller boy jumps in fear, instincts forcing him from his cocoon of sheets and preparing to call for help.

Minho laughs in reply.

“Where’s the bloody fire?!” Newt shouts at him sarcastically, jumping on to Minho’s chest and pinning him down with his dangerous gaze. His boyfriend smiles up at him, the anger and danger translating into cuteness. He rolls Newt off his chest, sending the two of them tumbling to the floor.

“Ow Minho!” Newt cries as the heavier boy lands on top of him, their naked skin smacking together painfully as the floor bruises their backs.

They lie their together, trapped in the moment and the suspense of gravity that threatens the constant ticking of the clock.

“We need to get up babe,” Minho whispers into his ear, warm and happy and everything that was Minho.

He sighs, “I know.”

Minho gets off of him, the warmth of his body leaving him as the sheets fall to the floor. He’s naked, toned and chiselled and beautiful. Newt doesn’t want to go back to sleep, he wants Minho to stay still and naked and _there_ as he watches from a safe distance. The more he stares at the boy the more he’s scared he’ll disappear, like a mirage in the desert that exists only to tease and mock Newt’s desires. Then he’ll be alone on the floor, cold and confused, realising that the perfection that was his boyfriend was simply an idea, a daydream and a lie.

Newt watches the boy above him scowl, his brows creasing in concern as he looks down at him, “What’s wrong?”

“Are you real?” He asks.

His stupidity is made evident by the silence and a pointed brow.

“God, how hard did you hit your head when you fell?” Minho asks, pulling the blonde to his feet and watching him gaze wondrously into his eyes.

They’re naked, standing next to the window and watching each other like the nonsense that they’ve amounted to.

“Tell me you’re real Min,” Newt pleads with tear filled eyes.

“How am I supposed to prove that I’m real?”

Newt searches the morning light that casts itself on Minho’s body for an answer. But there isn’t one in his morning-dazed mind.

Minho holds him to his chest and chuckles into his hair. He reaches down and pinches Newt’s pale and uncovered backside.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Newt cries in protest, knowing that the taller boy must be real because if he wasn’t, Newt was sure he’d create his dream boyfriend in a more civilised fashion.

“I pinched you,” Minho declared with a smile, “To prove that you weren’t dreaming.”

They emerge themselves into a kiss. Everything was perfect, Newt warm and entirely real in his hands, the tweeting of the birds outside the window and the-

Newt’s alarm clock cries out again.

“Bloody hell!” Newt screams at the object, throwing his misplaced t-shirt at his bedside table, forcing the sound to die out as its batteries roll across the floor.

The silence bears no relaxation.

Minho grabs his waist, “We need to get ready. I need another shower as well.”

Despite his anger at his rude awakening he finds himself falling against Minho’s chest, “I think I have some of your clothes in my wardrobe,” He turns to Minho with a smile, “I can make you some breakfast while you’re in the shower.”

“Thanks babe!” He cries as he runs to the bathroom with excitement, Newt’s eyes not leaving his backside until he disappears from his view.

The water from the shower fills Minho’s ears, the beat of the droplets echoing in a harmony throughout the bathroom. He steps into the the shower’s stream with a smile, picking up Newt’s shampoos and various body lotions and smelling them, picturing the blonde in his head when he did so.

Everything was perfect, Newt was downstairs making him a no doubt awesome breakfast, his body was still satisfied at the amazing sex from last night and his heart was heavy with love as he thought about Newt, about everything he was to him and everyone else. And this time there was no alarm clock to ruin his trail of thought. He laughs to himself, feeling intoxicated by the drunkenness of his own love, wanting to stumble around the shower and tell the nothingness and the silence that Newt was his and he was perfect. He wanted to sing and dance around like a princess as all the inanimate object of the shower would join in at the chorus, telling Minho that he was a stud and the best boyfriend ever to grace their presences.

His smile faded when he followed the train of thought to a dead end. But then the smell of Newt’s conditioner filled his senses, then he was singing and smiling and thinking about how awesome he was at everything.

He turns the shower off, leaving his wet body to shiver at the cold and jump to the soft towels in aims of comfort. Minho winces at the taste of his own morning breath, deciding that if Newt could suck his dick he wouldn’t mind sharing his toothbrush. After he washes away the signs of toothpaste from the sink he searches Newt’s room for some clean clothes, surprisingly finding a full set of garments right down to his boxer shorts.

The smell of food causes his stomach to rumble, his freshly dressed form being led to the kitchen by the promise of food and the gorgeous blonde. Standing in the doorway he sees him, Newt dressed in nothing but Minho’s t-shirt and a pair of boxers, standing over the frying pan on his tip-toes. He walks up to his boyfriend, marvelling at the beauty of his backside and the stack of pancakes that sits next to him. Minho grabs Newt’s waist and bites his ear, whispering sweet nothings like they were the only ones in existence.

But they weren’t.

Janson watches the two with a blush and an awkward shift of his eyes from the kitchen table, a fresh cup of coffee and a newspaper armed in his grasp. He and Minho watch one another, weighing each other up with a testosterone fueled agitation. Newt however, is whistling and sinking into Minho’s hold.

“Pancakes are ready!” He calls out, shaking their eyes from each other to the plate of food and Newt’s warm and adorable smile.

They all sit down, Janson and Minho adjacent to one another retelling the traumatic memories of the last time they had all sat at the table, all the screaming and the crying that had ensued. This time however, Janson looks apologetic instead of angry, constantly shifting his gaze to Newt eating his pancakes and messing his face with maple syrup. Minho doesn’t look away when Janson turns back, nodding his head in a sign of compromise. Newt’s father smiles thinly, eyes falling back to the newspaper with a relaxed sigh.

Feeling more welcomed than before Minho begins eating, shoveling his breakfast down at such a pace Newt protests in claims his stomach will hurt later. When their plates empty Newt stands up and puts the pots in the sink, leaning down and kissing Minho’s cheek with the brightest of smiles.

“I’m gonna’ go get changed,” Newt tells him as he walks away, the back of his head not understanding Minho’s fear of being stuck with his father, alone.

Sure enough Newt’s cheerful whistling fades into the distance, Janson placing his newspaper down with a serious expression.

He was fucked. Everything was wrong, Newt’s father was going to tell him that he wasn’t worthy of Newt’s love and would forbid them from seeing each other again, Newt would cry and call him a failure for getting mad, and then Thomas would kill him for making Newt cry and then his form teacher would resurrect him just to kill him again for being late for school. He was _fucked._

“Look,” Janson sighs, Minho searching the room for an escape route and preparing to call for help. But Janson’s tone is calm and mannered, “I just want to… to say sorry. And… and to thank you.”

Minho swallows, still sure this was some kind of trick.

Janson swallows as well, the two in sync with their awkwardness. “The other night was… well, terrible. A complete and utter failure,” Janson coughs to excuse the shift in his voice, “I wanted Newt to realise that you were a bad influence, for… for you to break up.” Minho growls out in protest but is cut off by Janson’s raised hand, “But I was wrong. I never liked you, I don’t know why. You were always a little ruffian, even as a child, like at Newt’s tenth birthday party when you pushed the clown over and ruined the party.”

Minho remembered that, Newt threw a big birthday party for all his friends and it was perfect, Janson had spent a lot of money to make Newt forget about the reality of his mother’s sickness. There was a bouncy castle, a petting zoo and even a clown. The clown was called Mr Tickles, a name Minho was sure was not his actual name but at the age of ten it had made him laugh. He and Thomas had watched in fear as the clown handed out balloons, his wicked smile was distorted in their childish minds as a sign of danger. Thomas had cried in fear, Mr Tickles handing him a dog shaped balloon with a grin. So Minho had done the rational and very heroic thing, pushing the poor man in costume down with a surprising strength for such a young child. Minho hadn’t meant for the man to fall into the pond, he didn’t know the man was scared of water and he certainly didn’t’ think he’d have a panic attack. He also didn’t know the man had asthma… he didn’t know they’d need an ambulance. All ten-year old Minho saw was a scary clown that looked even more nightmare- inducing as the water streaked the make-up down his face, distorting his painted on smile into a sad frown.

Minho remembered Newt looking scared at the sirens, remembered the parents coming to collect their children and crying at his ruined birthday party. That was when ten-year old Minho realised that he should always think before he acted, also not to push asthmatics with aquaphobia into bodies of water.

He and Janson shook their heads at the memory. “I think my main reason for disliking you was because I was scared,” Janson continued, “That you would sweep Newt off his feet and fall in love. I think I was scared you’d beak his heart.”

“I won’t,” Minho swears without a second thought.

Janson smiles, “I know. You were always there for him, especially when… Ava died,” The man’s voice quivers with remorse, “You were there for him, you and Thomas. Without you I don’t know what would have happened…” Janson looks back up, meeting his gaze with a determination, “I trust you,” he nods at his words, “You were there for Newt and I know you always will be.”

Minho swallows, unsure emotions rising to the top of his throat, “T-Thank you… uh sir.”

“Call me Janson,” He corrects with a shuffle, grabbing the back of his neck in signature nervousness, “or dad… or you know, whatever.”

They hold their gaze, Minho fearing he’s tearing up so he’s relieved when they awkwardly look away.

All his life Minho was searching, desperately craving to feel like he belonged, to be part of a community. After his dad left Minho felt unworthy, useless and a burden to all those around him.

It was Newt who was his first love, the bundle of blonde being his rock, understanding and adoring him with all his imperfections. It was his mother who told him she was proud of him, making him feel responsible and powerful as she laughed at their unconventional broken family. It was Thomas who he called his best friend, the brunette’s sarcasm and ever present pout making him feel comfortable in himself, making him the person he was today with all his mischief and antics that fuelled their entertainment.

But something was always missing.

He still felt unloved, out of place and unworthy, forever reminded that his father had left him for reasons he could only describe as neglect.

But now it felt complete. Here he was sitting across from a man he swore he loathed, Newt and everyone else leaving him alone with the man, the man that called himself his _father_ , who _wanted_ him to be part of their family, because he trusted him, and because he respected him. It was all too much to process on a Monday morning.

Minho opens his mouth to say thank you, but a peck on his cheek swaps his thoughts of family to one of Newt, fully dressed and smiling.

“We gotta’ go dad,” Newt excuses as he grabs Minho’s hand, “I’ll see you when you when I get home.” The boy hugs his father, Minho nodding in Janson’s direction as they turn to the door, ready to face the day.

But instead of the bright Monday morning meeting them as they opened the door, they are instead met with a tired and confused looking Thomas who’s arm is raised as if he were about to knock on the door.

“What the fuck,” Thomas droned at their surprised expressions, “Why the hell is Minho here?”

Newt shuffles in the doorway, his father’s gaze bearing into the back of his head, “Minho… uh stayed the night.”

Thomas grins, “You mean you fuc-“

“We’re late for school!” Newt cried with flushed cheeks, “See you dad!”

But the universe had convinced itself to embarrass Newt further.

“Hey Mr Newton,” Thomas beamed brightly, stepping on his tip toes to wave at Newt’s father.

Newt growled and tried to push the brunette outside, but Thomas stubbornness was far too strong.

Janson walked over to the three of them all crumpled in the doorway, a wide smile on his face. “Please Thomas,” He grinned, “Call me Janson.”

Newt swallowed the vomit in his mouth, Minho silently hoping that Janson wouldn’t ask Thomas to call him ‘daddy’ too.

The three friends were far too familiar with each other’s behaviors: the way Minho would grind his teeth when he was annoyed, the tilt of Newt’s head that told them he was lying, but nothing was more notorious than the bend of Thomas’s back and the slight lean of his body when he was about to flirt.

Thomas slowly began to tilt his hips, trying to exaggerate the slender shape of his body in the doorway as he blinked innocently in Janson’s direction.

“We’re really bloody late now, come on!” Newt cried with anger deep in his tone, grabbing Thomas by the hair and pulling him away from his father.

Thomas waved at Janson till the man shut the door.

“Shucking hell Thomas,” Minho laughed, “We can’t take you anywhere.”

Thomas chuckles into the air, pulling Newt into a hug as they walk, “I can’t help in Newt, your dad is _so_ -“

 _“Shut up!”_ Newt growls again, pushing the brunette away with a heavy blush on his cheeks.

“Come on Newt,” Thomas excuses with a pouting lip, “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t if you weren’t with Minho or-“

“ _Or if he wasn’t my father?_ You’re revolting!  I hate you Thomas, you’re never coming round my house again!” Newt storms off ahead of them, his small legs however being far too slow for the athletic strides of the other boys.

“But then how will I watch him shower?” Thomas asks sarcastically, the joke making Newt scream instead of laugh, “How is he supposed to fall in love with me then? Where will he propose?” Thomas lets out a melodramatic sigh, “How will I become you’re daddy then?”

Minho laugh sounds suspiciously like choking, the lack of oxygen from his snorts causing him to fall behind their pace with a wheezing chuckle.

“It isn’t funny Minho!” Newt snaps, the anger in his eyes rivaling his embarrassment.

But Minho and Thomas aren’t listening; they’re too busy rolling on the floor.

“Fine!” Newt snaps, “If you think it’s so funny then why don’t you and Thomas go out and try and have sex with my dad!”

The blonde storms off own the street. “Newt!” Minho cries after him, catching up with the blonde with a humored smile, “I’m sorry babe.”

“S’ fine,” The other grumbles in reply.

They kiss quickly before joining hands and waiting for Thomas to snap out of his laughing fit and catch up. Eventually he does, whipping the tears from his eyes and attempting to catch his breath.

“Hey, where’s your school bag?” Thomas asks when he learns to breathe again.

“Fuck!” Minho cries, “All my school shit is at home. _Fuck!”_

Newt squeezes his hand, “You can borrow my stuff, Min.”

A smile tightens their cheeks at the two lean back down into a kiss.

Thomas mumbling pulls them from one another. “Is that what being in a relationship means?” Thomas barks, “Borrowing each other’s pencils and kissing as you laugh at all your little stupid couple jokes.”

“Jealous much?” Minho asks as he puts his arm around Newt.

“No,” Thomas lies, lifting his head and straightening his posture in parody of his own movements, “I’m a strong independent woman, I don’t need a man in my life.”

“Then stop hitting on my dad,” Newt retorts

The brunette chuckles, “You wish, when I’m done with him you’ll both be so blown away with our love that you’ll be the biggest janmas shippers around.”

Even Newt smiles this time, their laughs synchronising into the light-hearted melody of the morning.

Everything was perfect, Newt was his, Janson accepted him and Thomas was still the biggest dork in existence. Minho was so happy that not even his form teacher could dampen his mood, zoning her out with his princess song of love and happiness as she demanded for excuses and gave him detention.

 

* * *

 

 

Staring at the sky, all three of their shoulders touching, they smiled. At first Minho had protested about the wet grass of the school field, Thomas had complained about Minho’s sweaty stench from running practice and Newt had just laughed, contempt with just being still and in the moment with the two people he’ll never leave behind. He doubts the universe will dare try and pull them apart. His head falls to his boyfriend’s shoulder, enjoying the boy’s musky smell and warmth. Minho kisses the hickey on his neck, grinning in achievement as he shivers.

“Only one year left of school,” Thomas remarks with a disbelieving tone.

“I know,” Newt says, “Then we’ll be at university.”

Suddenly Thomas sits up, blocking the sun from the lover’s eyes. “Do you think it’ll all work out?” He asks in fear, glumly looking at the two as if they, for some unknown reason, hold all the answers.

“What the hell are you on about?” Minho mocks, Newt punching him in the arm for his lack of sensitivity.

Thomas however, remains in his glum daze or existential crisis. “Like life. You know, after school, after university,” He looks to Newt, then to Minho, “We’re still going to be friends, right?”

“Course you shank,” Newt swears without pause, the conviction in his tone causing neither boy to question the truth, “You’ll always be my Tommy, even when we’re old and in wheelchairs.”

“Yeah,” Minho laughs, “It’s not like we can get rid of you.”

Newt’s growl makes him mutter out an apology.

“Nothing could tear us apart Tommy,” The blonde tells him, sitting up to level with the brunette’s stare.

“Yeah,” Minho continues, “Even when all our dreams come true.”

They all laugh, Thomas falling back to the ground with a painful sounding thump that does nothing to dampen his smile.

“Even when I’m a famous artist,” Newt continues, eyes wide with the promise of the future. The clouds above him look like happiness.

“Yeah, and even when I’m winning gold medals at the Olympics and voted the most handsome male athlete for ten consecutive years,” Minho adds, taking Newt’s hand in his own. The clouds above him look like victory.

Thomas smiles, “And when I’ve got a super-hot sugar daddy who buys me cool stuff.” He takes Newt’s other hand. The clouds above him look like love.

“Yeah,” Newt repeats as he looks at Minho, “And we’ll get married and have a house together, a cute little suburban one with a white picket fence and everything.”

It’s becoming a parody now, like all three of them are the same small children looking at the sky and telling everyone about their dreams of the future.

Minho chuckles into their kiss, “Yeah, and Tommy can live above the garage.”

 _“Hey!”_ Thomas exclaims, shoving their shoulders to distract them from each other. “I’m not a pet. Besides, I don’t need you two. I’m gonna’ have a big mansion made of gold with a bulldozer that’ll crush your tiny little bitch house.”

Their laughter is carried by the wind.

They are happy, silent with the thoughts that consume them and their dreams of the future. The sun is brighter now, the force of the rays surrounding them and washing the sense of realisation over them as the watch the sky that watches them with nothing but smiles and good intentions.

The brunette breaks the silence with a declaration that stills his heart, “I’m going to come out to my parents.”

Newt and Minho look at him in surprise.

“You sure, Tommy?” Newt asks.

“Yeah,” Thomas smiles, tone reassuring and convinced, “I always told myself they’d hate it, that mum and dad would kick me out or tell me I’m wrong but… maybe they won’t. Right now I’m just dancing around the subject, they don’t know me, not properly, I can’t be happy in that house until they know the truth. Then I can move on with my life.”

Minho nods his head, “Yeah, I get that. Maybe they’ll surprise you.”

“Maybe…”

Newt squeezes their hands, their eyes all falling upwards towards the sky. And they don’t blink away the brightness, they do not cower or complain, only accept the constant warmth of the sun in all its brightness. Their bodies cast shadows on the shadows.

“Yeah,” Thomas swears, “Everything’s going to be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s done! I’m so overwhelmed with the amount of positivity and friendliness I’ve received from this story. Every hit, every kudos, every comment means the world to me, so thank you SO much!
> 
> But fear not, I’m planning a short spin-off following Thomas and his coming out story, lots of Thomas x Gally if that’s your thing. If not, this series will eventually have an epilogue with Minho and Newt all grown up and happily married so stick around for that. Right now I’m planning a multi-chaptered angsty tominewt story that should be posted in the next few days, so this most certainly isn’t the end! 
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for reading and being awesome, hopefully I’ll see you all soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter should be up in a few days, any and all feedback is appreciated!


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